One Under (48 page)

Tarrant gave him a look, not quite sure how to take this. His hair was still wet from the shower and there was colour in his face. In the end he touched glasses with Winter, accepted the compliment. He loved the game, he said. Always had. His own dad had been semi-pro with Aldershot and some of the old man’s talent must have rubbed off. Fitness was a bit of a problem, and he’d be wise to knock the fags on the head, but football had always been a bit like riding a bike. Once you’d cracked it, figured out how the game ticked, then there were a million little labour-saving tricks you could learn.

‘That big geezer? Played for the reds in the first game tonight? He was a fucking handy bloke, good with both feet, but you know how you cope with that? You nick the ball off him a couple of times, then tell him to try harder. Mind games, see? Never fails.’

‘Rach says you’re a puppy. Never retaliate.’

‘She’s right. That’s another thing. You watch the mouthy blokes, most of them haven’t got a clue. All they want is a fight. That’s always easier than playing football.’ He laughed, tickled by the thought, took another swallow of beer. ‘You want to come and watch us when the proper season starts, eleven-a-side. That’d be good. We could make you our mascot. Mr W.’s boys. Courtesy of the Old Bill. Fancy that?’

Winter said he’d give it a thought. They were settling in nicely. He bought two more beers.

‘Here’s to August then.’ He raised his glass. ‘Is that when it kicks off?’

‘Yeah. Can’t wait. Play to our strengths, no one’ll be able to live with us. You know what they say? If you’ve chalked twenty-one points on the board by Christmas, you’re home and dry.’ He laughed again. ‘Twenty-one points is seven wins. Piece of piss.’

‘Here’s hoping then, eh? To Christmas.’

Winter raised his glass again. Tarrant’s grin was fading.

‘Christmas?’

‘Yeah. Let’s just hope you’re still around to see it.’

‘I’m not with you.’

Winter put his glass back on the table and gestured him closer. Time for a change of tack.

‘I’ve got people on my back, son, you wouldn’t believe. Powerful people. Senior coppers. They’ve looked at the evidence and they’ve made up their minds. The way they see it, you’re dead in the water. The only mystery is why they haven’t nicked you already.’

‘For what?’

‘Doing Givens.’

‘Oh yeah? How’s that? Got a body, have they? Proof?’

‘No, they haven’t, but that’s a detail. Mine’s a nasty little gang. You’ve seen the way they work. You know they never bloody give up. I tell you this for free, son. They think you’re taking the piss. And they don’t like it.’ He leaned forward, patted Tarrant on the knee. ‘You want some advice, son? Get a babysitter lined up. Someone the kids like. Someone you can trust.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because they’re likely to pull you in. Maybe Rachel, too. And once that happens you won’t be seeing daylight for at least a couple of days.’

‘Yeah?’ Tarrant was worried now. The euphoria, the memory of the evening’s goals, had gone. ‘So where are you in all this?’

‘Me? I’m part of the gang too. But I’m something else, son, as well. I’m your mate. And you know why? Because you helped me out, big time.’ He nodded, patted him on the arm. ‘Listen, no bullshit, I admire the life you’ve got together - Rachel, the kids, even that weird job of yours. I admire the way you’re matey with people, the way you give them the time of day, even nonces like Givens. Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘Even him. That says a lot about you, son. In my book it says you’re a gentleman as well as a player, and how many people can you say that about these days, eh?’ He leaned back a moment, the proud father, took a swallow of beer. Then he was back again, his face close to Tarrant’s. ‘But there’s something else too. I never really bought the stuff about the money, about Givens giving your missus one. The rest of my little gang, like I say, think that’s enough. In fact they think it’s more than enough. Paul, they tell me, you’re off the fucking planet. We’ve got the bloke banged to rights. Number one, he’s sitting on a hundred and eighty-five grand of Givens’ money. Number two, Givens is shagging his wife. How many other reasons does a bloke need to give someone a good hiding? They’ve got a point, son, of course they have, but me, I know different. Why? Three reasons. One, because I know he forced that money on you. Two, I know he couldn’t get it up for Rachel if he tried. Yeah? Am I being fair?’

‘Yeah.’ Tarrant couldn’t take his eyes off Winter. ‘You are. So what’s number three?’

‘This, son.’

Winter glanced round, then felt inside his jacket. Tarrant spread the sheet of A4 paper Winter produced on the table.

‘That’s my kids,’ he said softly. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘Yes, it fucking does.’ He glanced up. ‘Have you got the rest too?’

 

It was nearly ten by the time they left the pub. Tarrant was pissed. At Winter’s insistence, they walked the half-mile to the hospital.

‘Left, Mr W.,’ he said when they reached the roundabout by the main entrance. ‘Big place, can’t miss it.’

Winter steered him through the maze of buildings to the mortuary.

‘Seven seven one three,’ he muttered, puzzled by the fact that Winter had already opened the door.

Inside, Winter kicked the door shut with his heel. He could hear the whirr of the fridges in the chilly darkness.

‘The lights, son.’

The lights came on. Tarrant was fighting to keep his balance. He weaved towards the open office door, then had second thoughts, heading instead for the fridge room.

‘Bottom drawer,’ he muttered.

Winter went into the office. Under a phone book, in the bottom drawer, he found half a bottle of vodka. He took the cap off and gave it a precautionary sniff. This was no place to trust clear liquids.

Tarrant was back. ‘You want a mug? Glass? Whatever? ’

Winter shook his head, offering the bottle. Tarrant took it, swallowed a mouthful, blinked.

‘What’s that then?’ Winter was looking at something in Tarrant’s other hand. It looked like an envelope.

‘It’s for you, Mr W.’

Winter took the envelope. The CD inside was cold to the touch.

‘Where did you get this?’

‘Fridge four.’ Tarrant grinned at him. ‘My lucky number.’ He nodded at the PC. ‘Go on. Help yourself.’

Winter shook his head, surrendered the seat at the desk.

‘You do it, son.’

Tarrant sank heavily into the chair, lodging the vodka bottle between his thighs. He turned the PC on and slipped the disc into the CD drive. Winter accepted a slurp or two from the bottle, standing over the screen, watching.

At last the screen cleared. Jake reached for the mouse.

‘Enjoy,’ he muttered.

The first image showed the same two kids, naked again, lying on their backs on a patch of grass. Both had their legs scissored open, tiny fingers pointing at their genitals. It was hard to be sure from this angle, but Winter fancied they were both in fits of giggles. Uncle Alan, he thought. And his funny little games.

Tarrant was slumped in the chair, his eyes half closed. He clicked on through the photos, cursing this pose, dwelling briefly on that, telling Winter that Rach had trusted this man, left him to it, gone off down the fucking shops to get something nice for their lunch.

‘Something tasty, eh? As if that nonce needed it. Look at that.’

He’d paused on a shot of Tarrant’s daughter. Givens must have found a length of string from somewhere. He’d tied it round her tiny waist and then raided the washing line for a couple of handkerchiefs. The handkerchiefs were pegged to the string, one either side of her belly button, leaving a slim panel of naked flesh at the front. Once again, she was grinning fit to bust. All this attention. All these fun and games.

‘How sick is that?’ Tarrant was shaking his head.

The shots went on. After a dozen or so Winter lost count. There was no ambiguity in these poses. Had any of this stuff found its way to Jessops, Givens would have been arrested.

‘Where did you get all this?’

‘Cunt’s flat.’

‘When?’

Tarrant shook his head, refusing to answer, then clicked another image onto the screen. His son, this time, gazing at his stiff little willy.

‘Am I imagining things,’ he said softly, ‘or did my nipper need a bit of help?’

‘Disgusting.’ Winter was still waiting for an answer.

‘Yeah, and this one, look.’

The boy again, bent over this time, arse to camera.

‘You getting the picture, Mr W.? Only you guys would call this evidence, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yeah, too fucking right.’

Winter manoeuvred his bulk between Tarrant and the screen, then sat on the edge of the desk.

‘You must have had some clue that Givens was doing all this,’ he began.

‘Clue?’ Tarrant was slurring now. ‘Of course I did. You just had to look at the nonce. Camera? Bloke like Givens? My kids at his mercy? You’re the detective, Mr W.; you tell me.’

‘But you’d need proof, wouldn’t you? You’d need to be sure?’

‘Of what?’ Tarrant was trying to peer round Winter’s bulk.

‘Of what he was doing. Listen to me, son. This is important. Think. Tell me. You suspected Givens. You knew in your water what he was up to. But you had to be sure.’ He leaned down, his face very close to Tarrant’s. ‘So you went round his flat, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And you got him to show you the decent shots, right? The OK stuff?’

‘Decent? Fucking right. Fucking well decent. Yeah. Janet and fucking John. What a joke.’

‘And while he was out of the room, you had a look through the rest. Right?’

Tarrant was trying to focus. At length he started laughing again.

‘Wrong,’ he said. ‘I went through the laptop but couldn’t find anything so I went through his drawers, didn’t I? Found one of them little tiny picture card things, for his camera, all wrapped up in cling film. Easy, mush. Straight in the pocket. Wanted to know, didn’t I? Wanted to know what kind of party he’d really been having, the nonce.’

‘He’d been looking at this stuff through his camera?’

‘Must have been. All on one card, they were.’

‘And you accessed the card through another camera? ’

‘Yeah.’

‘Whose camera?’

‘Mine.’

‘Did Rach know?’

‘Never. Still doesn’t.’

Winter shifted his bulk on the desk, relaxed a little. Tarrant’s chin was on his chest.

‘So where’s Givens’ camera now?’ Winter murmured.

‘Binned it, didn’t I? Dropped it in the fucking harbour.’

‘And his laptop?’

‘That too. Return ticket on the Gosport ferry. Best couple of quid I ever spent.’

‘Why? If there were no shots on the laptop?’

‘Cos … ’ He frowned, trying to remember. ‘Cos I wanted it to look like some scrote had done a job on that flat of his. Same with the wallet. Leave it somewhere tasty and it’s gone in seconds.’ He grinned to himself. ‘That poxy newsagent’s place in Somerstown. Cool, eh?’

‘OK.’ Winter nodded, trying to sort out the timeline in his head. ‘And all this was afterwards?’

‘After what? After all them cream cakes? After all them nonce trips to fucking Venice?’

Winter steadied himself on the desk. He knew he was running out of time. Tarrant was beginning to talk nonsense. Any minute now, he’d call it a day. He bent closer.

‘You found the camera card. You knew what he’d been up to. I want to believe you sorted him out, son.’ Winter stared down at him, the anxious father, the trusted mate. ‘I want to know you did what any decent dad would do … Yeah?’

Tarrant gazed up, then nodded. His eyes were moist.

‘Late on a Monday,’ he said softly. ‘Piece of piss.’

‘Here?’

‘There.’ Tarrant gestured vaguely over his shoulder, in the direction of the post-mortem room. ‘Told him I was working overtime. Needed help.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘Help, fuck. He was the one needing fucking help.’

‘What about your mate?’

‘Mate?’

‘Simon. Your oppo.’

‘Oh.’ He grinned. ‘Fatboy. On leave. Fortnight in Ibiza. Lucky bastard.’

‘So how did you do it?’

Something in Winter’s voice, just an edge of over-eagerness, brought Tarrant to a halt. He peered up, his eyes half closed.

‘Why?’ he mumbled. ‘Why do you want to know all this stuff?’

‘Because I’m here to help you, son. Because otherwise you’re gonna be in deep, deep shit.’

‘Yeah? Why’s that?’

‘I told you back in the pub. Because mates of mine want to put you away.’

‘And you?’

‘Me? I’m the only one who can stop them.’

‘Yeah?’ Winter knew he wanted to believe him. He bent closer again.

‘You have to trust me, son. I want you to know I understand. Any bloke would, any dad. What Givens was up to was evil. The bloke was vermin. Thank God you had the bottle to sort him out.’

Tarrant gazed up at him, nodding.

‘Yeah,’ he said softly. ‘Too fucking right.’

‘So what happened?’

There was a long silence. Winter edged his body sideways on the desk, watching Tarrant as his eyes found the image on the screen.

‘I whacked him, didn’t I? Under the ear, just round the back here.’ His fingers touched the soft skin behind his right ear. ‘Bloke went down like the squinny he was. Beautiful shot. Beautiful, beautiful shot.’

‘What with?’

‘Rounders bat. Belonged to Rach. She was saving it for when the kids get older.’

‘Where is it now?’

‘I burned it.’

Winter stirred on the desk. A Monday evening, he thought. The door locked. Plenty of daylight left. And all the usual tools to hand.

‘He was dead by this time?’

‘No.’

‘So what did you do next?’